3

Mrs. O’Toole pulled on her gloves. “We’ll only be at the Warrens’,” she said.

Fex looked at her, then lowered his eyes. “I thought you and Dad were headed for the Academy Awards dinner,” he said.

“I’m not overdressed, am I?” she said, looking at herself in the hall mirror.

“You look great, Mom,” Jerry said.

Although she hadn’t yet left the house, Fex thought his mother already looked like a different person. In her party clothes she shimmered and glowed and seemed covered with a shiny glaze, like a strawberry tart. He felt a trifle shy in her presence. And, although he greatly admired her appearance, he longed for the morning when she’d be herself again.

Mr. O’Toole jingled the car keys.

“You kids behave yourselves,” he said, eager to get going.

“Don’t call us unless it’s an emergency.” Their mother pressed her cheek against each of theirs, careful not to smear her lipstick.

“Tell Pete to keep hands off,” Jerry said. “When you go out and leave him in charge, he always acts like King Kong.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t try to climb the Empire State Building,” Mr. O’Toole said. He jingled his keys some more.

“No one’s in charge,” he said. “You’re all old enough to look after yourselves.”

Fex and Jerry looked at each other. That was a lot of baloney, and they both knew it.

“Be good boys, please,” their mother said, and she and their father took off. Fex and Jerry knelt on the sofa and watched the red taillights disappear as the car turned the corner on its way to the Warrens’.

Pete did his usual Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde routine. The minute their parents left, he turned into a monster. Without even drinking a potion.

“All right, you guys,” he snapped. “Shape-up time.” He whipped out his pad and pencil to take notes on what they did wrong. “Keep your noses clean or else.”

Pete was a fifteen-year-old hotshot, Fex thought, the worst kind. He was a sophomore in high school. Girls had been calling him up since he was younger than Fex was now. He was a good athlete, a good student. He was full of himself. When Audrey went to visit her uncle, she sent Fex a postcard. It said, “I used to think nothing was impossible until I met you.” That was Pete in a nutshell.

Jerry did what he always did. He took his violin out of its case and tucked it under his chin.

“Not here!” Pete shouted, covering his ears. “Mercy! Have mercy!” Jerry was ten, with the face of a choir boy. Ladies were always patting his cheek, smoothing his hair, driving him bananas. Mostly Jerry was cool and calm. Nothing bothered him. Fex envied him. Jerry got free violin lessons in school. They had to rent the violin, but the lessons were free.

“God knows they ought to be,” their father said after he heard Jerry play. Jerry produced the most extraordinary sounds from that violin that Fex had ever heard. Sometimes the house was filled with the mournful sound of a coyote caught in a steel trap. Other times you’d swear someone was locked in a dungeon in the cellar being tortured by experts. Through it all, Jerry smiled as he sawed away. He loved his violin. It was a pleasure to watch, if not listen to him.

Fex figured Jerry didn’t hear the same noises his listeners did. Probably to his own ears he sounded like Heifetz. Like most people, he heard what he wanted to hear.

Jerry went upstairs to practice. The telephone rang. It was Sally, for Pete. When the calls first started, Fex listened in on the upstairs extension, hoping to hear some sexy stuff. Pete said, “No kidding!” a lot, and whoever the girl was, she giggled in time to the music in the background. Fex had almost fallen asleep.

Now he rarely bothered to eavesdrop. It wasn’t worth it.

Fex lay on the floor, studying his history. His teacher, Ms. Arnow, was always telling him he’d have to concentrate harder if he wanted better marks. Look at me now, Ms. Arnow, he directed. He felt like calling her up and asking her to drop over so she could watch how hard he was concentrating.

He felt the pressure of a foot on his rear end. Just the toe of the shoe, but enough.

“Fexy,” his brother Pete said, “I got the urge for some cookies. All that talking made me hungry.” Pete spoke in an absentminded way that meant he’d had cookies in mind for some time.

Fex rolled over on his side.

“That Sally you were talking to. She the one on the wrestling team?”

The pressure of Pete’s shoe increased. “Ha-ha,” he said. “That’s about as funny as a fart in a space suit.” Fex made earmuffs of his hands and concentrated harder. He knew he should go upstairs to the room he and Jerry shared, but he couldn’t fight the violin tonight.

Take a gander, Ms. Arnow. Just a little gander at me, Fex O’Toole, concentrating my butt off.

Bending down so Fex could smell the peanut butter on his breath, Pete whispered, “When you gonna do what I say, kid?”

The blood pounding in his head, Fex told himself, I won’t. He can’t make me.

“Go get ’em yourself,” he said.

“Hate to do this to you, kid,” Pete said, “but I don’t have a choice. I double-dare you.”

Jerry straggled through the living room on his way to the kitchen for a snack. They ate more snacks when their parents were out than when they were home. Jerry watched them, waiting.

“Go soak your head,” Fex said.

Pete laughed and lay back on the couch. He took off his shoes and socks and picked his toenails, watching Fex out of the corner of his eye.

“A double-dare is a double-dare, baby. You can’t escape a first-class double-dare, and you know it.”

“Dad would be mad if he heard you,” Jerry said.

Fex went on reading. Pete picked a nail off his big toe and threw it at him.

“I double-dare you to sit over here, I double-dare you to lend me your ear,” Pete sang, his favorite golden oldie. He’d been delighted to find the record in a secondhand junk shop. Had learned all the words, in fact, and relished every chance he had to break into song for Fex’s benefit.

“Don’t do it, Fex,” Jerry said, his face stern, his eyes glistening. “Hang on and don’t give in.” He went back upstairs.

I won’t, he can’t make me, Fex told himself again. Then, as if someone had pulled some strings, as if he were a robot and had no control over his actions, Fex got up, went to the kitchen, grabbed a handful of cookies, kept three for himself as a gesture of independence, and threw the rest in Pete’s direction. Pete grinned, picked up the cookies, and didn’t even say, “Thanks.”

The telephone rang again. Pete arranged his face in what he thought of as his sexy look, letting his lids stall at half mast, curving his hand around the receiver as if he owned it.

“Hello,” he said in his deep, mysterious voice. Then, “Who?” he snapped.

“It’s for you, creep.” He held out the telephone to Fex. “Hurry up. You got work to do.”

Not too many people called Fex. Maybe it was Audrey.

“Hello,” Fex said.

“I’m taking a survey. I’d like to know if your refrigerator is running.” It was Barney’s voice. Fex couldn’t believe Barney was working that old routine.

“Why, are you trying to catch it?” he replied.

Silence from the other end. Barney breathed into the telephone, trying to think of what to say next.

“Listen. Don’t bug me,” Fex said. “I know it’s you, Barney. I’ve had a bellyful of you today.”

“How’d you know it was me?” Barney said.

“I can smell you,” Fex said.

“Ha-ha-ha,” Barney answered.

“Listen, my old man’s on the warpath. He says no phone calls until my marks improve,” Fex said. “I’ve gotta go. If he catches me, he’ll let me have it. He’ll probably let you have it too.”

“He better not!” Barney hollered. “He just better not.”

“Gotta go, Barney,” Fex said and hung up.

Upstairs all was quiet. Fex sneaked into his room. Maybe Jerry had gone to sleep with the light on. He pulled on the striped T-shirt he slept in and turned back his blanket.

“Hey!” Jerry hung upside down, like a bat, from his upper bunk.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was thinking,” Jerry said.

“What about?”

“I was thinking you’re a jerk to let him get away with that junk.”

“What junk?”

“That cookie junk. You oughta punch him out when he tries that stuff.”

Fex shrugged. He was a master shrugger. “It doesn’t matter.”

Jerry scowled. Even scowling he looked angelic. “Sure it matters, and you know it.” His upside-down face disappeared. “Listen to this,” he commanded as he began a new melody.

Fex listened, wincing.

“Has it got a name?” he asked when the music ended.

Jerry’s face dipped over the side at him. “Isn’t it neat? That’s ‘Turkey in the Straw.’ That’s for square dancing. Do-si-do and all that rot. Maybe they’ll ask me to play if they have another square dance at school. I might have to do a solo.” The strains of “Turkey in the Straw” fought their way from the violin. Kicking and screaming, Fex thought.

“Some turkey,” he said, but Jerry didn’t hear him above the sounds of his music.